


A Bowl For Shadows

by houseofcannibals



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Continuation, First Kiss, Fluff and Smut, Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, their relationship becomes sexual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2016-07-29
Packaged: 2018-05-06 15:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/houseofcannibals/pseuds/houseofcannibals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em> 'The final scab of his old skin fell away. Will inhaled a deep breath of the cool night air through fresh lungs, as the new-born child first parts its lips to taste the world.' </em><br/> </p><p>Set after the events of 'The Wrath of the Lamb', this story picks up where the show left off and continues as I would like the show to continue for season four and five, beginning with Will and Hannibal tentatively exploring the new physicality of their relationship in the aftermath of the fall, and moving into glorious murder husbands territory and beyond...</p><p>(This story is currently on hiatus: I very much intend to continue, hopefully sooner rather than later, and am so sorry for the delay.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.  
>  The vase, reconstructed, houses  
>  The elusive rose.
> 
> Ten fingers shape a bowl for shadows.  
>  My mendings itch. There is nothing to do.  
>  I shall be good as new.  
> 
> 
> ( _Extract from ‘The Stones’, Sylvia Plath_ )

Blood and water and he could not breathe.

*

His memories existed in fragments, shattered by the fall, scattered, some lost to the sea. Another man’s blood on his hands, on Hannibal’s mouth, mingling with their own; how black it looked in the moonlight. Standing on shaking legs at the edge of the cliff, pain and adrenaline coursing through his veins, the roiling waves beneath and Hannibal before him; Hannibal beautiful and deadly and his, all his – the beast that would be caged for no one, except him. How clearly he had loved him in that moment. How calm he had felt when he made up his mind. The warmth and comfort of Hannibal’s arms around him, holding tighter and tighter still, even as they fell. The feeling of being loved. Of being home. 

Then they’d hit the water like a concrete wall, and everything he was, all his resolve, was knocked out of his mind in an instant, and he was lost.

For a length of time he could not measure, there was only blackness and cold, so impenetrable he could not conceive of a time before or after it, seeping into his flesh, into his wounds, into his eyes and nose and mouth. His body limp and helpless against the force of the current, buffeting him like a ragdoll, icy fingers wrapping around his ankles to drag him deeper. Water in his throat, in his lungs, and the cold getting thicker, curling around him in a lethal embrace; soon it would swallow him whole.

And throughout it all, Hannibal’s arms around him, holding impossibly tight. His own fingers, numbed nearly to uselessness, hooked into claws, still clutching the fabric of Hannibal’s sweater as though it were a lifebelt. He glimpsed Hannibal’s face under the water, and saw his eyes closed and lips pressed together, calm, even as the last of his life streamed from his nostrils in a succession of bubbles. And Will knew then that he would be alright. As the shadowy unconsciousness of death lapped at his mind, lungs straining, body shutting down, he felt an immense sense of calm settle over him like a heavy blanket. He was content. He had known for a long time that this dance he and Hannibal had been doing could only end in death, for one or both of them. That thought had once filled him with hopelessness. But now that feeling fell away, like unfastening a restrictive collar from around his throat. Even with the last of the oxygen in his lungs and in his brain ebbing away, he could breathe freely, perhaps for the first time in his life. 

To die in Hannibal’s arms was not a defeat, but a beautiful surrender. Better for them to go like this, together. He would go into it willingly. 

Then his head broke the surface, and as he gasped in a huge lungful of burning air and felt life flood back into his veins, he realised how sorely he did not want this to be the end. 

“Hannibal!” he cried, turning his face away as a surge of foam crashed over him and pushed him under again. Wild-eyed, sputtering and choking as he resurfaced, he became aware of the sensation of Hannibal’s arms still around him, but he couldn’t see him – he was still beneath the waves. Crying, his own hands so numb he wasn’t certain at first if he was even holding on to anything anymore, he dragged Hannibal up until his head crested the surface before pulling him closer, almost screaming now. Hannibal’s lips were blue. His eyelids fluttered and he coughed, vomiting up a torrent of salt water. The hands on Will’s back fumbled to hold him tighter, fingers scrabbling to clutch the soaked fabric of his shirt. He tilted his face back to the sky, gasping.

Will’s heart thudded in his throat, relief pounding through him before a cold sliver of doubt crept into his mind and his heart like a layer of frost settling over the garden. Here was the man he had tried to kill. Was that not the case? Had that not been the endgame he’d been playing towards for all these years, the momentum which had driven him over the cliff in the man’s arms? Had he not been willing to end his own life to achieve the righteous goal of Hannibal’s death? 

He could end it now. Push Hannibal’s head back under the water and hold it there until he stopped breathing. He didn’t even think Hannibal would struggle; in fact, he was certain the man would be smiling as Will killed him. Then the tiredness in his own body would overwhelm him, and he would slip under himself and the let the tide carry him away, where he could sleep. It would take no time at all. 

“Will,” Hannibal said, breathlessly. Will met his eyes, blinking against another wash of spray hitting his face. His heart seemed to fall into the pit of his stomach. He wondered if Hannibal could see on his face what he had been thinking.

“Please,” Hannibal said. In the dim light of the blood red sun falling beneath the horizon, his eyes looked black against his pallid cheeks, dark pools dripping with raw love and surrender. “Help me.”

And that was it. Any illusions he had harboured about killing Hannibal fell away with the final light of the evening, leaving only a comforting darkness. He had spent his whole life trying to stay out of that dark place within himself, for fear of what lay there; now, he realised, it was the one place he could be happy. And he would not be there alone. He could feel tears spilling down his cold cheeks as, with frozen fingers, he managed to grip Hannibal’s hand.

He was not sure where either of them found the strength to escape the water’s icy grasp, but somehow they managed to reach the narrow strip of rocky shore and lay, panting and shivering, bodies curled toward one another, fingers still tightly entwined. The pain in Will’s face and his shoulder was greater than anything he had ever experienced, matched only by the aching cold that penetrated to the very core of him, yet his attention was focussed not on his own wounds, but on Hannibal’s. Even in the minutes they had lain here, the stones beneath the man had been stained deep red; the fingers clutching the wound in his side were slick with blood. 

Fresh terror gripped Will’s heart. The thought that Hannibal might bleed to death right here beside him was too horrific to contemplate.

“We need to get back to the house,” he rasped, squeezing Hannibal’s hand to get his attention; his eyes had slipped shut some time ago, and if it were not for the irregular rise and fall of his chest, Will might have feared he was already dead. “You need to give that medical attention.”

Hannibal’s eyes opened a fraction and met Will’s. A single tear ran down the side of his face.

“I’m not certain that I would make it back up the bluff, Will.”

Quivering with fear and anger, Will jerked his hand away from Hannibal’s and hauled himself to his feet, stumbling and almost falling, before righting himself and glowering down at the man. He could feel the blood pulsing down his cheek from the movement, but he didn’t care. A drop landed on Hannibal’s hand, and the ghost of a smile settled over the man’s pale face.

“Get up,” Will said, trying to hide the shake in his voice. “Don’t make me carry you.”

“I have lost a lot of blood,” Hannibal said, so infuriatingly calm and rational that it made Will’s blood boil. “I would only slow you down. Your own wounds are not fatal, but you need to tend to them presently. You will find all the medical supplies you will need in the cabinet beneath the bathroom sink. If you stitch your face up carefully, then you shan’t be very ugly.”

Will glared at him for a moment, before dropping to one knee and slipping his hands under Hannibal’s arm, pulling him into a sitting position. He saw Hannibal wince at he was moved, pain clouding his eyes before he regained his stoic self-control. He glanced at Will with mild amusement.

“I seem to remember you attempting to kill me less than an hour ago. What has changed?”

Will ducked his face, concentrating on hauling Hannibal to his feet to avoid finding an answer to the question which had been haunting him since they escaped the waves – longer, if he was to be perfectly candid with himself; since the very first moment that he had learned what Hannibal was, and yet still found himself yearning irresistibly for the man’s company, for his touch. For a long time he had felt as though something was growing beneath his skin, stretching it from the inside to accommodate something new, tearing him open and threatening to expose him for the monster he really was. His _becoming_ , Hannibal had called it with quiet awe, but to Will it had been agonising. And yet… Something had changed. Whatever transformation he had been undergoing was not complete, but he felt as though he’d finally shed his broken and scarred old skin when he plunged beneath the merciless waves; what was left of him was raw, naked. Soon, he knew, if he continued to follow Hannibal down the dark path of their shared madness, he would find a new skin waiting for him along the way. He would slip into it as smoothly as a glove, and let Hannibal stitch him together at the seams. And he would look normal again. Only Hannibal would know what he was.

He had been changing for some time, but the difference was that that thought no longer filled him with dread. He embraced it as easily as he had Hannibal before he pulled them both from the cliff.

“Can you walk?” he said eventually, when Hannibal was on his feet and more or less steady, one arm slung around Will’s shoulders and breathing heavily. 

Hannibal nodded, swallowing hard, his brow furrowed slightly in pain. “There is a path we can take back up the bluff. It is steep.”

“Then we’ll go slowly. Just tell me which way to go.” 

They set off with stumbling footfalls and ragged, panting breaths, the scent of blood thick in the air between them and the crashing of the waves loud in their ears. 

“Thank you,” Hannibal breathed, barely audible, as they approached the merciful end of their tortuous ascent and the house came into sight. It was the first word either had spoken in some time, the steepness of the climb stealing all the energy they had. The arm slung over Will’s shoulders shifted slightly to allow one finger to gently skim down Will’s cheek. 

The final scab of his old skin fell away. Will inhaled a deep breath of the cool night air through fresh lungs, as the new-born child first parts its lips to taste the world. 

He knew that they would be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this work is taken from 'The Stones' by Sylvia Plath, a poem dealing with the experience of a presumably suicidal coma in a hospital bed. The idea of slowly putting oneself back together after such a traumatic experience echoes Will's own post-fall. Plath writes 'The mother of pestles diminishes me. I became a pebble.' The core of the self (the pebble) survives while all else is stripped away, another element I wish to explore in relation to Will's experience.
> 
> The first words Hannibal says to Will after the fall are inspired by Mads' own answer to the question of what Hannibal would say when a fan asked at Red Dragon Con: 'Help.' I think there is something very sweet in the idea.
> 
> I intend to write this story as I would personally like to see the series continue - beginning with our beloved murder husbands tentatively exploring the new romantic and physical side to their relationship, as well as hunting together, before moving into 'Silence of the Lambs' territory later down the line. This will follow my personal headcanons and silly ideas, though suggestions are always welcome, if not always adhered to. Yes, I know there have already been a million and one post TWOTL stories, but this is mine; what else are we going to do while we're on he-ate-us? :)
> 
> There will be smut. I don't know when exactly... But it's coming. Also much fluff and cuteness!


	2. Chapter 2

The lights were still on in the house. Their blood had gone cold on the floor. The body of Francis Dolarhyde still lay sprawled on the patio where he had fallen. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. Darkness had fallen outside. 

Hannibal could barely stand when they finally staggered through the door. Will managed to hold him up long enough to get him across the room, before Hannibal’s legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed into a chair with a pained groan. His brow glistened with sweat as weak fingers peeled back blood-soaked fabric to expose the wound in his side. He was shaking – but when he spoke, his voice was low and even. 

“Please could you bring me my medical kit from the bathroom?”

Will went at once, stumbling on cold- and exhaustion-numbed legs, slick hands sliding across the tiles as he groped for the light switch. The box he found in the cabinet beneath the sink was no basic first aid kit like the one he had kept in his own home, forever half-empty, a haphazard jumble of Band-Aids and gauze and blister packs of aspirin with only one pill left. This case looked like something lifted from an ambulance. And it was heavy. Shivering, he carried the case back to Hannibal and fell onto the sofa beside him. 

“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal murmured. He had removed his shirt entirely, and Will watched, entranced, as fresh blood leaked from his side with every heave of his strong chest. Long fingers moved through the well-stocked case to select a glass vial and a hypodermic needle as he spoke. “I’m going to give you something for the pain.” Pointed teeth ripped open the needle’s packaging. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer for me to stitch you up. If I don’t tend to myself now, my body will likely go into shock and I may die.” The syringe filled with clear liquid; Hannibal tapped the needle twice with a small hum. “Please roll up your sleeve.”

Will lifted tired eyes to the needle in Hannibal’s hand, before meeting his eye. It could contain anything, and they both knew it. He imagined Hannibal slipping him a lethal dose of something and leaving him to twitch and gasp and slowly die beside him while he attended calmly to his own wounds and then left, alone. It would be easy for him. Will had no idea, after all, what he kept in that case.

Eyes never leaving Hannibal’s face, he unbuttoned his cuff and pushed up his shirtsleeve. In silent offering, he draped his arm across the older man’s knees. Hannibal’s lips twitched upwards. Light fingers touched the pale flesh freely given, before he slid the tip of the needle into a prominent vein in the crook of Will’s elbow.

Will’s lips parted in a small sigh as something cool flushed into his system. He swallowed thickly, settling deeper into the sofa. Hannibal withdrew the needle and set it aside. He pressed a fingertip to the spot of blood that had beaded on the skin where the needle entered, with just enough pressure to make Will shudder. Then he raised it to his lips. 

Will chuckled. “I’m already bleeding heavily. You don’t need to seize the smallest drop if you want a taste of me.”

Hannibal’s eyes shone like dark pools of water in his pallid face. He looked away, as if suddenly nervous, and busied himself unwrapping a packet of gauze. “You know why.”

Will didn’t say anything. Hannibal was right; he knew why. The wounds the Dragon had inflicted on both of them meant something else. This had been an act of trust, and of complete honesty, of Will giving himself to Hannibal without fear. An offering, however small. Hannibal’s acceptance of it had been an act of consummation.

“Thank you,” Will whispered. Hannibal lifted his gaze finally to meet Will’s. He nodded. 

A moment of silent understanding passed between them. Then Hannibal placed a pad of gauze into Will’s hand, and raised the hand up to Will’s face.

“Apply pressure. The shoulder can wait.”

Will nodded and did as he was told, wincing as he touched his ragged cheek, but the pain was ebbing even then. His eyelids drooped; the fingers of his other hand unfurled and fell limp in his lap. Hannibal observed him for a moment longer before turning back to his supplies. 

“Whatever you’ve given me… It’s good,” Will murmured, watching Hannibal’s skilled fingers quickly clean and sterilise his own wound. The man’s face was rapt, only the minutest twitches of brow and clenching of jaw betraying the pain he was in. A bead of sweat dripped from the tip of his nose as he worked. “You should take some yourself. I know you’re in pain.”

“I will allow myself to take a sedative only when I am assured that neither of us is likely to bleed to death in the immediate future,” Hannibal said quietly. His breath hitched in his throat as he took a threaded needle to his skin, eyes screwing shut momentarily. When they opened, they were heavy with pain. He exhaled slowly through gritted teeth. “I have suffered worse.”

Even through the cushioned fog of anaesthetic, Will felt a coil of guilt wind tighter inside him, around his heart, his lungs, cutting deep. Mesmerised, he watched the steady push and pull of the needle working through Hannibal’s raw pink flesh, the black thread drawing him back together. As hard as the man was trying to hide it, Will could see Hannibal’s fingers shaking as they worked. His own shook nearly as much when, leaning in, he placed them over Hannibal’s. Hannibal looked up at him, surprised. 

“Let me help,” Will whispered.

Hannibal hesitated, then shook his head. “I am quite capable.”

“What about the entry wound? How are you going to stitch your own back?”

Hannibal watched him in silence for a moment, before taking his wrist and moving it aside. His fingers lingered a little too long on Will’s skin before flinching away. He returned to his work, pulling the thread taut and snipping it, before handing Will the needle.

“If you would be so kind...”

Sitting up, he shifted his body to allow Will access to his back, and for the first time, Will saw up close the scars that Mason’s men had left on him. He had seen pictures of course, in the police report from the farm, and then that dreadful hack Freddie Lounds had somehow gotten hold of one and slapped it all over her tasteless website – _MARK OF THE BEAST: EXCLUSIVE PICTURES OF HANNIBAL LECTER’S GRUESOME SCARS!_. The marks had been raw and red then, the heat almost tangible through the images. Now, only scar tissue remained, pinkish white and raised.

The pads of his fingers brushed the scar, feather-light, and he sensed rather than heard Hannibal sigh. The brand had faded over the years that Hannibal had spent in the hospital, but it would always be visible without skin grafts. With his index finger, Will traced the name scarred into the skin, fascinated, before he pulled back to attend to the wound at hand. Neither mentioned it.

The entry wound was not as bad as the ragged hole that the bullet’s path had torn out of Hannibal’s abdomen. It was smaller and neater, the skin around it discoloured with a grey-black ring of gunpowder residue. As gently as he could manage, Will pressed the needle into the skin and threaded it through. He felt Hannibal’s body tense beneath his hands, but the man made no sound.

“It won’t be very neat I’m afraid.”

“Nothing between us has ever been neat,” Hannibal murmured. “I would not expect the marks you leave on me to be any different.”

Will mulled this over for a time as he stitched. “Love is not neat,” he said.

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder. “Very true.”

They lapsed into silence. Will finished working on the wound and snipped the thread. Hannibal reached behind himself and, with a soft hiss of pain, ran his fingers over the stitches.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He watched Hannibal dress the wounds, long fingers pressing pads of gauze in place, unwinding bandages. “How bad is the damage?”

“It could have been worse.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Hannibal’s brow creased into a small frown. “A wound of this nature is at high risk of infection, but treated properly, I should make a full recovery. The bullet’s path missed my major arteries, or I would likely have bled to death long before now. The Dragon wished only to incapacitate me, not to kill me outright. I imagine that what he had in mind for my transformation likely required time, and intimacy.”

“That was his mistake,” Will said. 

Hannibal glanced at him and smiled. “Yes it was.”

“Better to put a bullet in your head.”

“Or pull me from the edge of a cliff.”

“Yes, or that.”

A moment of silence. Hannibal watched Will throughout it, and Will watched him.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Will asked, eventually.

Hannibal smiled again, a small twitch of lips. “We will. But not yet. The blood is not yet dry. Let me take a look at that cheek.”

Will hissed as he lowered the blood-drenched gauze from his face and turned his cheek toward Hannibal, tilting his head back as he did so, his throat exposed. He saw Hannibal’s pupils dilate. It was a strange thing, to witness the effect he had on the man without finding it necessary also to chastise himself for what he saw. The shame and self-loathing that had once come hand in hand with seeing the love in Hannibal’s eyes was not necessary in this new life. He had cast it off beneath the waves, and was lighter for it. There was nothing to stand in their way now; he could love and be loved at will. The thought took his breath away.

His eyes never left Hannibal’s face as the man stitched his cheek. He could feel Hannibal’s breath on his face. His fingers were warm and gentle. Their knees brushed. 

“There,” Hannibal murmured, snipping the thread with care, one hand still resting against Will’s cheek. “Good as new.”

Will did not hesitate. He leant forward, and pressed a soft kiss at the corner of Hannibal’s mouth.

Hannibal drew back slightly, surprised. His fingers flinched from Will’s cheek, as if he’d touched them to a flame. 

Will opened his mouth to apologise, then thought better of it. He managed a small smile. His face hurt.

“We’re both different people now,” he said quietly. “I… don’t need to hide anymore.”

Hannibal’s lips parted. He hesitated, then returned the smile. It was uncharacteristically shy. 

“You never needed to hide anything from me, Will,” he said. “There is nothing you could show me that would make me love you less.”

Will’s breath hitched at the word, but he held Hannibal’s gaze steady. “I have only recently allowed myself… to acknowledge these feelings for what they are,” he murmured. “It’s… something of an adjustment. A lot to process.” He averted his eyes, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks. “It’s going to take time,” he finished, quietly, almost an apology.

He could feel Hannibal’s eyes still on him, rapt, and felt his blush intensify. “Have you ever known me to be impatient?” the man said. 

Will chuckled, winced. Hannibal’s fingers brushed his cheek again, his touch feather-light, then stroked his hair. A shudder ran through Will. 

He realised Hannibal was half-hard, and felt an odd pride. 

“Take all the time you need,” Hannibal said, still cradling Will’s head with one hand, the other damp with his blood. “If you were to decide at the end that you would prefer us never to touch, I would happily live an eternity at your side never doing so, so long as I could see you.”

“I don’t… I don’t think it will take an eternity.”

Hannibal smiled, a quick flash of sharp teeth, and glanced away. His voice had become a little gruff. “I find myself in you, Will. I can no longer exist as a whole being when I am apart from you… I feel your absence like the phantom pain from a missing limb.” He paused, as if acknowledging a truth to himself. “You’re more myself than I am.”

Will cleared his throat, reticent but moved. “Can we have this conversation at another time? Preferably when I am not drugged.”

“I would argue that you prompted the conversation by kissing me. But yes, it can wait. Shall we see to your shoulder?”

Will removed what remained of his shirt without being asked. Hannibal’s eyes fell at once to the scar he had left Will with in his kitchen, but he did not touch it. Both were very  
aware that Hannibal was taking it slow, as per Will’s wishes. But Will could not deny that he was a little disappointed. 

They were silent as Hannibal tended to and bandaged the wound, before taping a fresh pad of gauze to Will’s cheek. True to his word, only when he was finished and satisfied with his work did he give himself something for the pain, his eyes slipping closed in relief as the needle pierced his skin. He sighed, swallowing thickly, settling back into the comfort of the cushions. The house was very quiet. The soft hum of the refrigerator, the crash of the waves far below, their laboured breathing the only sounds. 

They sat side by side for several minutes, exhausted beyond measure, but content. It took Will’s doubts to break the silence.

“How long can we stay here?”

“Not long. A week, perhaps. I am quite certain that the FBI does not know about this place; I was careful to hide many of my assets before my imprisonment.”

“If they follow the Dragon…”

“What he intended to do to me would have taken time,” Hannibal said, without opening his eyes. “After all his fantasising, our friend Mr Dolarhyde would have made it last, hours or even days, perhaps, with you propped up in the corner as witness no doubt. As such, I imagine he will have gone to great lengths to insure he could not easily be followed.”

“The longer we stay, the harder it will be to leave. They know you got out of that transport van alive. They know I helped you to. There’s going to be a manhunt.”

“There is. And when we leave, we will do our utmost to make them believe we perished here. It will buy us time. But for now, we need time to heal. I am in no fit state to travel right now, much as I might like to be.” He nudged Will’s hand with his own, and grasped it lightly. “A few days.”

Will nodded. He trusted Hannibal’s judgement. “Where shall we go?”

“Anywhere. I should love to show you Europe.”

“I enjoyed what little I saw of it. Before I got shot.”

Hannibal chuckled, stroking Will’s thumb. “You know there is a chance we will be caught.”

“I know.”

“If you run with me, you can never go back to your old life. Will you miss it?”

Will considered that for a time, letting Hannibal lazily stroking his hand, feeling warm and safe beside him. He tried to remember what it was like to sit this way beside Molly, in the bed that they had shared, his stepson asleep just down the hall. That portion of his life was already starting to feel unreal, like something which had happened to someone else, told in such detail that he could almost believe it was a memory of his own. 

He knew there had been love there, a warm uncomplicated love that had bathed his wounded heart like a salve. It had been good while it lasted, and he had been saddened to feel it coming to an end, as he had known it inevitably had been the moment he entered into a devil’s bargain with Jack Crawford once again. But he struggled to remember now if he’d ever truly believed that it could last, or if he’d always known, in the place deep down that he refused to acknowledge, that it was merely a placeholder. If he hadn’t been waiting for a chance to leave.

“No,” he said, with only the smallest stab of regret. “I won’t miss it.”

Hannibal nodded, seeming satisfied. “You will face the same fate as I if we are apprehended. You may go to prison. Jack Crawford will not help you now.”

“The threads of our individual fates have become too entwined to separate. Who we were as separate people died with us when we fell. We died and were reborn. Together.”

“Together,” Hannibal repeated. There was awe in his voice as he said it. 

His fingers squeezed Will’s, and then he pulled away and climbed to his feet. The effort caused fresh sweat to dot his brow. Will followed suit, wincing. 

“Rest and recuperation is in order before we plan any further,” Hannibal said. “We should get some sleep. You may take the master bedroom. You will find nightwear in the bureau which should fit. I will take the spare room.”

Will bit his lip. The thought of being separated now, however briefly, was difficult to come to terms with. He wanted to feel the warmth and presence of Hannibal beside him as he slept. But he could not ask. It was too much. Too soon. 

Hannibal put his hand on Will’s face, sensing his reluctance. “I’ll be right down the hall,” he murmured. 

They parted. Will watched Hannibal walk slowly down the hall, and listened for the door closing behind him before closing his own. The master bedroom was pristine, like everything else in the house. The sheets were white. He stripped what little clothing remained from his bruised and battered body, and removed a pair of soft cotton pyjama bottoms from the drawers. They were a little long in the leg, but it hardly mattered. 

More tired than he had ever been in his life, he fell into bed and was out in seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise that it has taken me so long to write the second chapter. I've been trying to finish the other fic that I'm working on. Hopefully I'll get the next chapters out at a more reasonable rate!


	3. Chapter 3

He roused slowly, reluctantly, to the sounds of the sea.

His exhaustion had been too complete to allow space for dreams. But in the period of semi-consciousness before he woke, he dreamt of sinking. He dreamt of blood and breath. Of Hannibal’s mouth. 

Will opened his eyes.

He was in the master bedroom of the house where Hannibal had brought him, the sheets tangled around him. Bright sunlight poured through the open curtains. Will draped an arm over his eyes, groaning. His entire body ached. 

He lay still for several minutes, listening to the bird calls outside his window, the waves crashing far below. The wound in his cheek had bled through its dressing in the night; the pillowcase was spotted red. It felt very late in the day. He had half-expected Hannibal to wake long before him, and already be deep into his morning routine by the time Will stirred, but that did not seem to be the case. The house was still, quiet. 

Two thoughts dawned on Will almost simultaneously, and he scrambled out of bed as the horror of them gripped him. 

The first was that Hannibal might have left in the night without him. Simply packed a bag and gone, as he had that terrible night in Baltimore, as Will bled out on the kitchen floor.

The second, and worse by far, was that Hannibal might be dead.

On legs which shook from the exertion of the previous day, Will crossed quickly to the spare room and hesitated outside the closed door. He could hear nothing from inside, only his own pulse thudding in his ears. He raised a hand to knock, then thought better of it and pushed the door open halfway, peering inside. 

Hannibal lay in the middle of the bed, his head propped up with pillows and one hand resting protectively over his abdomen. A dark stain of blood sullied the pale sheets beneath his fingers. His eyes were closed, mouth slack. 

Will’s breath caught in his throat. If they had come this far, only for Hannibal to bleed to death in his sleep – 

Hannibal stirred. Will let his breath out in a shaking gasp.

“Hannibal.”

Hannibal’s eyes opened a fraction. “Good morning,” he breathed, seeming awed at being able to say so, to wake to the sight of Will. 

“Morning.”

“You are a sight for sore eyes, Will.”

“Pot calling the kettle black, I think.”

Hannibal managed a weak smile, grimaced. “Do you know the time?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose not. Shall I make breakfast?”

“Let me. I’m not a doctor, but I think you need to take it easy for a few days.”

“I am quite capable…”

“As am I.”  
Hannibal observed him a moment, then gave a slight nod. “I will join you shortly.”

Will stepped out, closing the door behind him. He lingered a moment outside, listening to the bed creaking beneath Hannibal as he got up, listening for any sounds of pain Hannibal made, hearing none. An oddly protective urge had crept over him, so fierce and new that it startled him. He wanted to tear out the throats of those who would do Hannibal injury. He wanted to break their bones and bathe in their screams. He wanted to… He shuddered, shrugging off the feeling with difficulty. Then he crossed back toward his room. 

In the adjacent bathroom, he relieved his bladder and washed his hands. He wanted to brush his teeth, but his cheek ached and he thought it might dislodge the stitches, so he settled instead for lowering his face to the faucet and carefully rinsing his mouth out. He wasn’t sure who he would see when he straightened up to meet his reflection in the mirror over the sink, but he found no horror in what he saw. The right side of his face was swollen and bruised, and his hair was a tangled mess. But he was still himself. Perhaps more so than usual.

He tried a tentative smile, and winced when it pulled at his stitches. 

In a drawer in the bedroom, he found a light knit sweater and pulled it on over his pyjama pants, before padding barefoot towards the kitchen. It felt very foreign, to wake up in a strange bed, wearing Hannibal’s clothes, and to be there of his own volition no less. He had to remind himself there was still a corpse on the patio, and their blood all over the floor, not to mention an FBI manhunt no doubt long since underway for them. But for the time being, he was content to enjoy this odd moment of domesticity for what it was, without guilt or shame. He hoped it would be the precursor for what was to come.

There was no fresh food in the kitchen of course, but in a cupboard Will found powdered eggs and plenty of herbs and seasonings, and in the freezer there were frozen sausages. He reconstituted the eggs and whipped them into a quick omelette while the sausages cooked, humming to himself, listening to the sound of running water in the bathroom down the hall. There was no milk, but there was good coffee, its smell filling the house as it brewed, covering the coppery tang of blood still heavy in the air. 

Hannibal emerged just as Will was plating the meal, his chest bare and his hair damp from the shower. He had changed his bandages, and they lay pristine white over his pallid flesh. He was paler than Will had ever seen him, even after the years tucked away behind the walls of the hospital had driven the tan from his skin, and his face looked drawn and pained. But when he laid eyes on Will, he smiled as though experiencing the finest day of his life thus far. 

“Smells good,” he said, accepting the plate Will offered him. “Thank you.”

“I did the best with what I could find,” Will said, grabbing a handful of cutlery from a drawer and carrying his plate over to the dining table. Hannibal joined him, sitting with care, one hand resting over his wound. “Might be a little too much salt.”

“I’m sure it will be divine,” Hannibal said, cutting a corner off his omelette and raising it to his lips. “This is the first meal of our new lives.”

Will poured the coffee, steeling himself to ask the question which had weighed on his mind the entire time he was cooking. “What’s in the sausage?”

“Pork,” Hannibal said, spearing one with his fork. After a pause, he added: “I didn’t make them.”

Will nodded, took a careful sip from his mug. “Will you want to?” 

He didn’t need to clarify what he meant.

Hannibal thought about this as he set down his cutlery and sipped his coffee. “I should like to preserve as much of my former lifestyle and habits as I am able to. But if you asked me to stop, I would stop.”

Will lifted his gaze to meet Hannibal’s eye. “Always?”

“Always,” Hannibal agreed. 

They watched each other a moment, then returned to their breakfast. Will tucked a small piece of sausage into the uninjured side of his mouth and chewed slowly, staring down at the plate. He could feel Hannibal’s eyes on him. 

“When we killed the Dragon,” Hannibal said, with a small nod of the head to indicate the patio. “You called it beautiful.”

“I did.”

“Do you still feel that way?”

“I do.”

“Yet you still pulled us both from the bluff,” Hannibal said, with a minute twitch of lips. “You intended us both to die.”

Will swallowed, and looked up at Hannibal in mild surprise. “No.”

“But you knew it was a possibility.”

“Yes.”

Hannibal raised another forkful to his lips. “You made a choice.”

“I let the choice be made for me. I let fate decide.”

“Then you didn’t choose this. Is this what you really want?”

“I chose you,” Will said, quietly, averting his gaze. He cleared his throat, suddenly gruff. “I chose to live or die with you. I would have been content with either. Do we have to discuss this now?”

“Better to be truly honest with one another about our intentions now before we lay plans for our future. Wouldn’t you say?”

Will felt his skin flush under Hannibal’s incessant stare. His knife scraped across the plate. He sighed, and met Hannibal’s eye again.

“You let me pull you off,” he said, a little defensive. “You could have stopped it, but you didn’t.”

Hannibal’s gaze was unwavering. “I made my choice as well. I chose you. I chose us.”

Will’s lips twitched into a lopsided grin. He glanced away, embarrassed. “Then why are we arguing?”

“Lover’s quarrel,” Hannibal commented, quietly amused.

Will’s blush deepened at the implications behind the words. “A little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

A slight smile from the other. “Not anymore.”

Will found himself laughing, even through the pain it caused him. Finding himself suddenly famished, he ate until he had cleared his plate, and poured himself a second cup of coffee, not failing to notice Hannibal’s eyes on him the whole time, adoring, enthralled. 

“Please stop staring at me.”

“We spent three years apart. I saw you only in memory, never as clear or as splendid as in life, never substantial enough to satiate one’s craving for the other. So the answer is no – now that I have the chance to look upon you, I intend to take full advantage.”

“Your therapist, Dr Du Maurier… She told me once that you could find nourishment at the very sight of me.”

Hannibal smiled. “Bedelia quotes Dante.”

“Is she right?”

Another smile. “Yes.”

Will bit his bottom lip, his cheeks still flushed with colour, warmed by the sun of Hannibal’s love. He wasn’t sure exactly why he was embarrassed. Only that this was all very new, and being able to speak openly about it even newer. 

He pushed a hand through his tangled curls, shy and endlessly endearing. “She asked if I _ache_ for you.”

Hannibal’s tongue crept out to wet his lip, a little breathless. “And what did you tell Dr Du Maurier?”

Will sipped his coffee, raising his eyebrows. “I didn’t answer.”

“Always the tease.”

There was a pause. Will was staring hard at the mug clasped between his hands, his shoulders tight. Hannibal sensed the other man’s discomfort, and looked away.

“I’m making you uncomfortable,” he observed.

“No. Yes. A little.” Will sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. “It’s something of the opposite, actually. It’s… I can be myself around you. And that’s strange to me. I’m so used to being someone else, I’m having trouble getting back into the habit. But I’ll get used to it.”

“I understand. With time and practice, it will become easier for you to wear a different skin in public than you do with me. It is how you will hide. But you never need to hide from me. I see all that you are. As you see me.”

Will swallowed. “I know.”

“Good. Now, let me take a look at your stitches. You’re bleeding.”

Hannibal stood and moved to retrieve some things from his medical kit, left out from the previous night. When he returned, he pulled his chair very close to Will’s, so close that he could sit with Will’s legs tucked between his own thighs. Will swallowed, hands gripping his knees, and tried not to stare at Hannibal’s bare chest as the man peeled the bloodied dressing from his face – tried not to stare at the strong, smooth muscles, at the down of soft hair flecked through with grey; or to think about what it would feel like to put his hands on that chest, drag his nails down it – 

Hannibal was aware of him looking but said nothing. Will needed time to adjust to what he was only now allowing himself to feel, and Hannibal was willing to wait a lifetime. He was perfectly content – euphoric, even. Barely twenty-four hours had passed since he had been taken from his cell in a straightjacket and chains, his mouth restrained, guns trained on him even as he was bundled into the metal cage inside the transport van. To be able to sit here now, a free man, and so very close… To be able to _touch_ … 

“The swelling is normal,” he said, cleaning away the crust and dried blood that had formed around Will’s wound in the night. “We should be able to remove the stitches in about a week. You will have a scar I’m afraid.”

“Another to add to the collection…”

“Our scars have the power to remind us the past was real.” Hannibal’s thumb stroked lightly over the stitches, making Will shiver. “They tell the history of who we are, and what we have gone through to get to this moment. It is written on our skin, yours and mine, only complete when we are together. Like two halves of a manuscript.”

His fingertips ghosted over the raised white scar which split Will’s forehead where the sawblade had opened him up for the taking. Will’s legs jerked, bumping Hannibal’s. Hannibal drew back his hand, hesitating a moment, wanting to say more but suddenly uncertain, before busying himself preparing a fresh dressing. His pupils were very large. He looked intoxicated.

“There,” he murmured, after the dressing was in place. His breath was very warm against Will’s face, and so close. “Would you like something for the pain?”

Will couldn’t stop himself. In truth, he didn’t try. He put a hand on the back of the other man’s neck and pulled him close. His mouth sought Hannibal’s, slow and shy as a virgin, lips parting just a fraction to taste those beneath his, catching Hannibal’s bottom lip gently between his teeth. His free hand came up to rest against Hannibal’s chest, fingers pushing through the soft hair that covered it, drawing a moan from the man that he could feel through his fingertips and which made him tremble. 

His eyes slipped closed. He could feel the prickle of Hannibal’s fresh stubble against his face, and found he didn’t hate the sensation. It would linger on his skin even after they parted. His own cheeks were rougher than Hannibal’s, and the thought that Hannibal would carry the feeling of him, too, was thrilling beyond measure. 

Hannibal let the kiss go on until both had to pause for breath, before drawing back a fraction, lips curling into a pleased smile. “If this your idea of taking things slow, I’m anxious to know what fast feels like.”

Will exhaled in a nervous little laugh. “This… feels right. Don’t ruin it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Hannibal pressed forward to seek another kiss, no less shy than Will, no less nervous, not really. His hand rested gently over the fresh dressing, thumb stroking across Will’s cheekbone. “Foolish of me to interrupt…”

“Very,” Will agreed. He felt Hannibal chuckle, a low rumble that went right through him and made Will’s toes curl against the cool floor. He accepted the soft kisses without pausing to question them, to think about what he was doing and spoil it. His body knew what to do; that was all that mattered. All he had to do was relax, and let it happen; allow himself to be loved. And when he felt Hannibal’s lips part receptively, he did not hesitate to press forward with his tongue, eager to taste him, to lick and bite and swallow him whole.

He was surprised and more than a little disappointed when Hannibal pulled away, and huffed out a small noise of frustration. Hannibal offered a soft smile in apology. 

“As loathe as I am to discourage your eagerness, I must remind you that you have fresh sutures in your cheek,” he said, stroking a hand through Will’s unruly curls. “I am very conscious of how easy it would be to dislodge them.”

“I don’t care,” Will said, leaning forward again. His knee brushed between Hannibal’s legs, and he drew back in surprise, glancing down at the stiff curve of Hannibal’s erection outlined against his pyjama pants. His lips formed a silent _oh_ , his own cock twitching in response. A crimson blush painted his cheeks.

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” Hannibal said, his voice very quiet. “In fact, it is taking rather a lot of willpower on my part to resist such keen advances. But I don’t want to do you another injury. Your face needs time to heal, or the scarring will only be worse.”

Will could not seem to drag his eyes away from the stiffness tenting Hannibal’s loose silken pants. The flush in his cheeks crept down his neck as his own cock grew hard between his legs. The urge to touch Hannibal itched at him, but he couldn’t quite find the courage. The boldness which had consumed him moments before failed him now when presented such a stark monument to its own success. He swallowed. 

“Will,” Hannibal said. His voice was thick, his accent more pronounced than usual. “You may feel an urge to recede into yourself. But please, stay with me.”

“I’m right here,” Will whispered. “Sorry, I… This is all a little overwhelming.”

“Would you like me to give you some space?”

“No. No, just… I don’t know what I want. I didn’t mean to…” He sighed, rubbed his eyes, shifting slightly in his seat as his hardness became uncomfortable. “This is embarrassing.”

“Your body is responding to stimuli before your mind has had a chance to process what it wants,” Hannibal said. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He paused, and wet his lips. 

“I could take care of it for you, in a manner which would be pleasing to us both.”

Will looked up at him, his mouth falling open. “You, uh…”

“I would delight in performing fellatio on you,” Hannibal said, placidly. “If you were partial to it.”

Will’s lips were moving, but no words came out. 

Instead, surprising himself, he nodded.

Hannibal smiled. He cupped Will’s jaw in both hands, and leaned in to plant a light kiss on his forehead. Then he climbed to his feet and moved his chair out of the way. 

“You really want to do this?” Will managed. 

“Nothing would give me more pleasure in this moment,” Hannibal said, and it was evident from the rapture in his voice that he meant every word of it. Without breaking eye contact, he dropped to his knees at Will’s feet, as if before an altar. “I’ll need you to part your legs for me, Will,” he prompted, gently. “I can take it from there.”

Slowly, Will eased his legs apart. He could not quite wrap his head around the notion that barely a half hour had passed since they were eating breakfast and discussing his attempt at murdering them both. More inconceivable still, the separate lives they had led only days before barely felt real anymore. There was only this. Only now. 

Only Hannibal. 

His breath hitched in his throat as Hannibal settled between his knees and reached to untie the drawstring of Will’s borrowed pants. Hannibal looked up, as if checking for permission, then eased them down, Will lifting his hips to accommodate the movement. 

Will ducked his head, still embarrassed for reasons he couldn’t quite express as his cock was bared. The small sound that Hannibal made in the back of his throat when he saw it didn’t help. He wasn’t used to being _adored_ this way, certainly not so blatantly. Sure, there had been lovers who were good to him, who admired his good body and his handsome face. But Hannibal looked at him as a man confined to a windowless cell finally looks upon the sun. 

He looked at Will like he’d kill or be killed for him. Which he had, and would do again.

Hannibal was watching his face intently, registering the confliction, the trepidation which muddled the want in the man’s eyes. He wasn’t sure yet if it was lingering uncertainty in Will’s feelings towards him which drove him to such extremes of emotion, from seeking kisses with great abandon to sudden flinching fear, or if this was born from a subconscious unease at engaging in homosexual acts. Such labels had never concerned Hannibal, never one to pass up an earthly pleasure in any form, but he reminded himself that Will had likely never felt such desires for another man, let alone acted upon them. He didn’t want to rush him. Still, with the elegant curve of the man’s stiff cock only inches from his lips, tip glistening with a bead of pre-come which leaked under the attentive gaze Will was being subjected to, a part of Will that he could taste and savour without inflicting harm, quite the opposite in fact… Hannibal’s train of thought escaped him. 

“Close your eyes if it makes it easier,” he said. “Pretend I am somebody else.”

Will looked down at him then, his lashes standing out dark against his flushed red cheeks, his lips still pink with Hannibal’s kisses. There was genuine surprise on his face.

“Why would I want to do that?”

Hannibal smiled, and it was so full of naked love and happiness that Will would have thought it the most beautiful sight he’d even seen, if not for the fact that only seconds later Hannibal presented him with a better one as, without preamble, he wrapped his lips around the head of Will’s cock. Will gasped, his hips bucking involuntarily, thrusting deeper into Hannibal’s mouth without meaning to. Intimately, he felt Hannibal chuckle. 

“I… _Fuck_ …” Will breathed, forgetting what he wanted to say, forgetting if he’d had anything to say at all as Hannibal took him to the back of his throat in one practised movement and began to suck.

He’d had his cock sucked before, a few times, and had always found it a pleasurable, if somewhat uneasy experience. He never knew where to look. Maintaining eye-contact was something he struggled with at the best of times, and almost impossible when the other person had his cock in their mouth – only made worse by the fact that he’d always assumed the experience to be less than pleasant for the woman in question.

Molly had done it for him a few times during their short-lived marriage, usually crawling beneath the sheets with a mischievous grin on her face while Will was trying to read. She was always the one to initiate it; she told him once, afterward, that she didn’t mind it because she liked seeing him happy. But that hardly meant she enjoyed the act itself, and when he watched her do it, he could often tell her mind was elsewhere, thinking about what to cook for dinner the next night, or helping Walter with his homework, or lingering on memories of a past that Will had not been a part of, and was not privy to.

But with Hannibal… Will could not stop staring. He watched, enraptured, as Hannibal tilted his head to get a better angle, to take Will deeper down his throat, until he almost choked. The noises he was making were obscene, especially coming from a man so refined. His eyes had slipped closed as he sucked contentedly; when they opened, he looked drunk with lust. 

It was more than obvious from the look on his face that it was no act. He looked like there was nothing in the world he’d rather be doing at that moment.

Hannibal pulled back for a breath, taking the opportunity to lick and mouth his way up Will’s shaft, before pressing a soft kiss to his inner thigh. Will huffed out a shaky breath, something between a laugh and a longing sigh, and pushed his fingers through Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal smiled, nuzzling his head against Will’s hand like a cat. Then he took him in his mouth once more and began to suck him hard. 

Will moaned, rocking his hips up into the warm, wet, inviting mouth that was enveloping his length, his hand still cradling the man’s skull. He wished Hannibal’s hair was longer so he could get a proper grip on it, so he could fist his fingers through it and tug it; and, realising that they had time for it to grow again, for he and Hannibal to exist and change over time together… That thought alone was almost enough to send him over the edge. 

Hannibal must have sensed this, because his pace slowed to a teasing crawl. Will groaned and, experimentally, pushed Hannibal’s head down a little further, forcing Hannibal to take him deeper. Hannibal looked up at him through his lashes, and Will could see the twinkle in his eye, the silent challenge. He pressed Hannibal down further, inch by inch, until the man’s nose bumped the skin of his abdomen, until Hannibal had taken him in his entirety. Drool leaked down the man’s chin, profuse and obscene.

Will could feel Hannibal quivering, on the verge of struggling to breathe. And still he looked up at Will, unflinching. A single tear ran down his cheek, whether from his eyes watering reflexively, or from the beauty of what he was doing, Will couldn’t be sure. Perhaps both.

He knew Hannibal would let him suffocate him like this, and not even struggle. 

He let him go then, and Hannibal drew back, gasping. A string of glistening saliva hung for a moment, suspended, between Will’s cock and Hannibal’s bottom lip. The man took a second to regain his breath, kissing up each of Will’s thighs in turn and pressing a grin into his flesh, then wrapped his hand around the base of Will’s cock and pumped it hard and fast as he wrapped his lips around the tip once more. Will did not touch him this time, just let Hannibal suck to him off to his heart’s content as he trust up into the man’s mouth until he felt the heat of his approaching orgasm building in the pit of his belly. He made a sound, words escaping him, trying to signal to Hannibal what was about to happen. If the man noticed, he certainly didn’t care, taking Will right to the back of his throat again just as Will spilled his release with a guttural cry.

Hannibal swallowed everything Will had to give, continuing to suck until he was sure Will was finished and becoming oversensitive, before slipping the man’s softening cock from his mouth and tucking it fastidiously back into his pyjama pants. With the back of his hand, he wiped the worst of the drool from his chin, and grinned up at Will, looking disheveled and debauched and utterly, painfully beautiful. 

“Thank you,” he said, almost dreamily, and Will began to laugh.

Hannibal climbed to his feet. A wet patch had formed on his silken pants where his leaking cock, untouched, still tented the fabric, seeming harder now than before. Will stared at it, wishing he knew what to say, wanting so badly to offer to return the favour to Hannibal in some way, but finding himself utterly speechless. It was ridiculous, he knew, to still feel nervous when he looked at another man with lust – especially after having that man’s lips wrapped around his cock only moments before. But it was still too much, and far too soon. He ducked his head, his cheeks ruddy, angry with himself and ashamed. 

Hannibal put two fingers until Will’s chin and coaxed him to look up. His smile was soft, comforting.

“Will. Was it good for you?”

Will nodded, biting his lip. “It was… The best it’s ever been for me. I’ve never felt so good.”

“Wonderful. It was good for me, too. And in future, it will be even better. I promise."

Will glanced down at Hannibal’s stiffness, his cheeks reddening further. “I don’t… I mean, I _want to_ , but…”

“I would not expect you to reciprocate in any way so soon,” Hannibal said. He cupped Will’s face, stroking his cheek. “And besides, with your stitches, you shouldn’t be putting anything large in your mouth right now.”

Will laughed, despite himself. He did feel good. It was foolish to feel any shame around Hannibal, when the man always saw right through him and laid himself bare in return.

“I derived as much pleasure from the act as you did,” Hannibal affirmed. “Perhaps more so. You cannot imagine how desperately I have wanted to taste you.”

Will tapped his skull, his scar. “I had an idea, yeah. I prefer this method exponentially, by the way.”

“And it’s renewable.”

They both chuckled, some of the nervousness easing out of Will, bit by bit. Hannibal brushed his knuckled down Will’s cheek then straightened up, sighing as he looked down upon himself. 

“I’m going to go and take care of this,” he said, as if it were a piece of paperwork he had to fill out, “and then I should very much like to do some reading. I could read aloud to you, if you’d like.”

Sleepy and spent, Will nodded. Hannibal excused himself and disappeared into the bathroom, returning a few minutes later in clean pants with his itch suitably scratched, pleased to find Will looking calmer. He selected a well-loved volume of Proust from a shelf and settled on a comfortable couch. Will considered the chair across from him a moment, then curled up beside Hannibal instead, tucking his legs beneath himself and closing his eyes as he listened to Hannibal read.

It wasn’t long before Will fell asleep, his head in Hannibal’s lap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Porn happened! I was going to keep this chaste for at least a few more chapters but... Well, our boys had a mind of their own.


	4. Chapter 4

The days which followed were spent in a state of slumberous peace which both would preserve, but which they knew could not last.

Will had taken to waking very early, his dreams too uneasy to hold him in bed for any longer than his body needed. He would shower and change the dressings over his wounds, then slip into some of his borrowed clothes and head out into the woods surrounding the house. Sometimes he would walk and walk until he tired himself out, until he didn’t have to feel anything anymore except the ache in his legs and the warmth of the sun on his face. Sometimes he would just sit, breathing in the fresh ocean air, listening to the rushing of the wind through the leaves, the call of the birds and the distant crashing of the waves. If he tried hard enough, he could almost make himself believe he was back in Wolf Trap, waiting for his dogs to burst back through the trees with wagging tails and wet noses. Or waiting for Molly and Walter to return from a fishing expedition at the creek. He could almost believe that nothing had changed.

But he didn’t want to. 

He was not that man anymore. He was not sure that the thing he was becoming was even a man at all. In the dark echoing spaces of his mind, he perceived the changes he was undergoing as something physical – he felt it as a clicking in the vertebrae as his spine unfurled and he stood prouder; as a burning in his lungs as he breathed differently, and a strange new thrum to the blood that pounded in his ears. In the quiet and privacy of the woods surrounding the place where he had died and come back from the dead, he blinked and saw the world through new eyes. 

It was a process that was not without pain, or regret, and alone in the woods, some days Will would cry and cry.

Eventually, exhausted and cold, he would return to the house. To Hannibal. 

Hannibal was immensely weak and in pain, and did not move around much. Often he would sleep very late into the day, accept whatever paltry meal Will would scrape together for them out of the dried goods in the kitchen and pantry and the dwindling contents of the freezer, then sit down to peruse his books. Will would sit with him and listen to him read, or simply watch him, curled at his side. Sometimes Hannibal would stroke his hair. On the fourth day, he kissed Will lightly on the forehead, and murmured something in his native tongue that Will could not begin to fathom, but which made him shiver and smile nonetheless. 

Pain was an unwelcome houseguest that both were forced to attend to. Will would take the pain medication whenever offered, though he knew as the days wore on that Hannibal was limiting their doses, no doubt fearing they might become dependent on the drugs. His stitches began to itch incessantly. On the evening of the fifth day, as he sat fidgeting at Hannibal’s side, straining not to touch his cheek, Hannibal commented wryly, without looking up from his book, that he would have to get Will a plastic cone if he would not desist. Will laughed, and then remembered his dogs, and the people he had left behind, and fell very quiet. Hannibal must have sensed this, for he put down his book and wrapped Will up in his arms, allowing Will to press his face into the man’s chest and breathe in his comforting scent. They stayed that way for some time, until the last of the day’s light had departed and darkness swallowed all. Will’s eyes were wet when they parted. No words were said. 

That night, Will found he could no longer stand sleeping alone. He lay awake for hours, haunted by the shadows in the corners of the strange room and the truth which stood, plain as a wardrobe, in the dark halls and chambers of his mind. Long after midnight, with the moon hanging high over the waves and its light falling in great swathes through the tall windows, bleaching the house and its inhabitants of their colour, Will padded down the hallway to Hannibal’s room and slipped inside without knocking. A moment of indecision, his heart wrenching and aching in his chest, then he crawled beneath the covers and lay stiffly beside the other figure in the bed, not touching, his hands curled into fists at his side, eyes fixed hard on the ceiling. 

At what point Hannibal had woken, Will could not be sure; he had given no indication. Without opening his eyes, his hand reached out beneath the sheets, his index finger stroking Will’s, just once, before returning to his side of the bed. Neither said a word.

That night, Will slept better than he ever had in his life.

*

On the morning of the sixth day, Will woke alone. 

The curtains had been opened; grey light fell across the bed. The sheets on Hannibal’s side were perfectly made.

Will lay very still for a moment, confirming quietly for himself that Hannibal had been there when he fell asleep. He still woke most days with the breathless fear that he had dreamt it all – that Hannibal had vanished in the night; or, worse, that he lay dead beneath the waves still, and Will had left him. 

His hand crept out to touch the pillow where Hannibal’s head had lain. It was cold. 

The sky was overcast and threatened rain. The warm spell they had been living under had broken. As he crossed into the main room and glanced out at the patio, Will saw that the crows, or perhaps even the gulls had descended upon Dolarhyde’s body in the night. The Dragon’s eyes had been pecked out. 

He realised with a lurch that they had been living in status. Waiting. Whatever they had been waiting for had come. 

Hannibal was sitting fully-dressed at the table in the kitchen, a laptop open in front of him and a slim leather briefcase set to one side. Will realised what he was looking at as he approached. He put a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder, feeling something inside of himself twist.

Hannibal reached up and placed his hand over Will’s, both staring at their pictures on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list.

“Your reward is a lot bigger than mine,” Will said, mildly.

“I have killed more people than you.”

“When did we make this list?”

“This morning. The FBI has been sitting on the news of my escape from custody, no doubt hoping to recapture me before it became necessary to admit their blunder.”

“The press will be having a field day. Hannibal the Cannibal at large… Finally a chance to reuse all that footage they compiled during your trial.”

“Yes, it seems my face is dominating the headlines this morning. Not that I’ve spent a great deal of time looking. I have never been one to collect my own press clippings. Terribly banal.”

“What are they saying about me?”

Hannibal glanced over his shoulder, an amused smile on his lips. “The official statement from the FBI is that you may have been abducted by me. Or that you may have been killed. Your whereabouts are currently unknown. But you are believed to be with me, intentionally or otherwise, hence the price on your head for information leading to your arrest. They appear loath to denounce you as a monster just yet.”

Will snorted. “Better to have a consultant kidnapped by a cannibal than admit we ran away together.”

“Of course.”

Will settled in the chair opposite him and reached for the pot of fresh coffee on the table. “There’ll be a nationwide panic, you know. It was bad enough the last time you were on the loose.”

“Panic is good for us. Fear makes people stupid. The FBI hotline will be inundated with false sightings and hoaxes. It will make it easier for us to disappear.”

Will felt his throat constrict. “We’re leaving.”

“Yes. Tomorrow would be best. We’ll go with the first light of dawn.”

“Can you travel?”

Hannibal ducked his head, the most audible complaint he would make about the pain he was undoubtedly in. “I will survive.”

Will sipped his coffee, not looking at Hannibal. He had known this day would come. He had known. They could not stay in the little house on the bluff forever, until the food ran out and the birds and insects whittled Dolarhyde’s body down to nothing more than a rotting shell on the patio. From the moment they had escaped the waves, the moment he had spared Hannibal’s life and sealed their mutual fate in blood, this flight had always been on the horizon. But he had not been prepared for when it came. 

It was not the fear of death that troubled him, or of capture. It was the breathless apprehension one feels when stepping out into the unknown, putting feet forward in the blind dark with no guarantee that solid ground will be waiting for them when they fall. 

The quiet days of recovery had been pleasant, and empty. But they had been nothing more than waiting – of Hannibal giving him the time to make up his mind. He could have turned back. He could have killed Hannibal, or called Jack, or ran in the night when Hannibal was too weak to follow. But the moment they left, together… That was the point of no return for him. The point at which he’d have to own up to who he was. To what he was. 

He became aware of Hannibal was watching him with calm, loving eyes, and looked up to meet them with a lump in his throat. 

But of course, the point of no return had come the moment he first laid eyes on Hannibal, and Hannibal on him. Fate and circumstance had brought them to this moment. He was powerless to change a thing, even if he wanted to. 

There was, he realised, no decision to be made. 

“You are having doubts,” Hannibal said.

A slight smile, a small shake of his head. His eyes were warm. “No. Just… Contemplating the future.”

“It’s not too late for you to have the future you desired,” Hannibal murmured, glancing at the screen again before sighing and closing the laptop. “Your wife and step-child are still waiting for you. You may face repercussions from the law, of course, but they cannot prove you assisted my flight.”

“You would still run?”

Hannibal contemplated the question, taking a sip from his own cup, looking at his hands. “Yes. I should not put myself through the tedium and indignity of incarceration again just to ease your conscience.”

“I wouldn’t… You know I wouldn’t want that.”

“I know.”

Will rubbed his eyes. “I don’t desire that other life. I thought I did, I thought… I thought if I had them, I could be…”

“Could be what, Will?”

“Better,” Will murmured, suddenly husky. “I thought I could be someone other than who I am. That I could be who I’m supposed to be.”

Hannibal reached across the table and placed his hand over Will’s. “You believed you had to hide who you are to be happy. But we cannot escape who we are. I see only the best in you, Will.”

Will raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a half smile. “This discussion is entirely unwarranted, you know. I am not going anywhere without you.”

Hannibal returned his shy smile. “I know. Did it occur to you that perhaps I am as apprehensive as you are?”

“You’re no stranger to running.”

He stroked Will’s hand with his thumb, making him shiver. “And yet this feels new. We are both virgins in this venture.”

A flush coloured Will’s cheeks. Simultaneously, both men looked away. 

Hannibal drew back his hand and reached for the briefcase at his side. From it, he withdrew a pile of documents and several passports. He sifted through them until he found the ones he wanted, then slid two across the table to Will.

Will wet his lips before reaching for them. He was unsurprised to see his own face staring back at him from one. He had always known, hadn’t he, that Hannibal had been preparing for the day they left together. He wondered how long the passport had been here. How many different times and different ways Hannibal had planned this. 

“Brian Hopkins from Columbus, Ohio,” he murmured, reading his new name and committing it to memory. “And you are… Dr Thomas Hopkins. So I guess we’re, uh…”

“For the purposes of this exercise, we are married,” Hannibal confirmed, not quite able to meet Will’s eye. “I hope that doesn’t make you uncomfortable. It will be easier to travel as a couple. People ask less questions.” He hesitated. “It is merely a cover.”

“Is it?”

A pause. Then Hannibal removed a small velvet jewellery box from the briefcase and turned it over in his hands. After a moment, he removed two identical rings. He held them in his hand a moment, then placed one on the table and slid it across to Will with two fingers, avoiding his eye.

Will stared at the ring.

“Are you… proposing?”

Hannibal made a gruff sound. “This is not how I would prefer to do it, you understand.”

Will picked up the ring and held it in his palm, feeling the weight of it. It was simple and unadorned, but he knew without needing to ask that it was expensive. Probably platinum. Hannibal was not the sort of man to meticulously plan for their lives together, and then skimp on the ring. 

He held it between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, turning it round and round, thinking. Then he slipped it onto the ring finger of his left hand. It fit well. Of course it did. He wouldn’t expect anything less.

“You’re old-fashioned,” he muttered, straight-faced. “We haven’t even slept together yet.”

Hannibal looked at him, finally, and a minute smile crept onto his lips. “I’m sure we will be as compatible in that as we are in everything else.”

“We’d better be,” Will said, struggling not to grin. “I’ll be terribly disappointed if I married you for nothing.”

Hannibal slipped his own ring onto his finger. Will got the distinct impression that the man was trying to hide how happy he was. Giddy, even. There was a glint in his eye. 

“I was concerned that this might be overwhelming for you. Given your romantic history thus far, I feared a sudden proposition from a man might scare you away.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Hannibal, I had my cock in your mouth just a few days ago. It’s a little late for me to turn round and say I’m uncomfortable with it.” 

He sat back in his chair and pushed his hand through his curls, watching the handsome older man across from him. It occurred to him how obscenely lucky he was. Not just to find such a man, but to be worshipped by him. To be adored. 

“Besides,” he said, “we’ve both been aware of where this was heading for some time. Though I may have been a little slow on the uptake. Sometimes we can’t see the forest for the trees. When did you first know?”

“That I loved you? I couldn’t say for sure. You know how it is. One day you look at that person and you just know, and it feels in that moment as if you’ve always known. I have always loved you, Will.”

“Did you love me when you were gutting me?”

A flash of that small smile he reserved just for Will, which turned the man’s insides to water. “I loved you too much when I was gutting you. It was an act designed to carve you from my life, inconvenience that you are. Just as you hoped to cut me out, when you drew your knife in Florence. I doubt it would have worked out for either us. You said it yourself. We could not survive separation. It would be like cutting out one's own heart and hoping to survive without it.”

“Yes,” Will murmured, looking down at the ring on his finger, twisting it round and round. “I suppose we’ll need to work on our communication. There won’t always be a cliff that I can pull you from.”

“Perhaps we ought to avoid cliffs on our travels. At least for a short while.”

A gruff chuckle. “That might be for the best.”

There was a pause. Both men stared at their hands. 

“I’d like to kiss you again,” Will said, quietly. “Would that be alright?”

Hannibal’s smile was all that’s best of dark and bright. It was the first indication of spring at the close of a devastating winter. It was love and hurt and all that existed between, a vast ocean of feeling suspended in that small twitch of lips. 

“And you call me old-fashioned,” he said, amused. “Asking for permission, Will? How quaint.”

“You don’t like to make this easy for me do you?” Will muttered, his cheeks crimson, leaning across the table. 

“No,” Hannibal breathed, and followed Will’s lead. Their lips met in the middle, the lightest brush, almost laughably chaste. And still it made Will’s heart flutter. His eyes were closed. He could have stayed that way forever. 

He felt Hannibal draw back and, reluctantly, did the same. Hannibal was watching him intently. No, not watching. Appraising. Like a collector examining a piece of pottery, something delicate and exquisite and desired. 

“I think we can remove your stitches today. Bandages should suffice for our travels.”

“Okay,” Will agreed. 

“And I should like to dye your hair, if you were amenable to it. We shall need to disguise ourselves as best we can.”

“Dare I ask what colour?”

“I was thinking you would look good as a blonde.”

Will laughed. “Are you trying to turn me into a substitute for Bedelia?”

Hannibal caught his bottom lip with his teeth. A slight raise of eyebrow. “Ah yes. Bedelia. That is something to consider.”

“Do you still consider yourself married to Mrs Fell, Doctor?” Will asked, coyly. “I shouldn’t want to make you a polygamist. Perhaps you ought to have approached her for a divorce before you offered me this ring.”

Hannibal met his gaze evenly. “I very much regret that Bedelia is still breathing. It is my hope that there comes a time, perhaps months down the line, perhaps years, when the FBI has lost faith in their hunt for us and Bedelia has dropped her guard, when I might rectify that mistake.”

“When _we_ might rectify that mistake,” Will corrected, softly.

Hannibal tilted his head. “I thought you didn’t have the appetite for it. What was it you said to me? I delight. You merely tolerate.”

Will wet his lips, chewing his answer over carefully before he could bring himself to spit it out. “My palette is changing.”

“Like the rest of you, it is evolving. It will take time.”

“Bedelia has been dreadfully rude. To both of us.”

“She has indeed.”

“Then it would be a shame to let her go to waste. Such well-fed free-range rude,” Will said, stretching languidly, his joints clicking, stiff with disuse. He felt suddenly restless. “We should savour her together, when the opportunity presents itself. Consummate our marriage by the consumption of your previous one.”

He could see the effect his words were having on Hannibal. He could not deny that he enjoyed the power he had over him, knowing a mere utterance could reduce the man to malleable clay within his hands. 

He drew himself to his feet and turned toward the bathroom. When he realised Hannibal hadn’t moved, he looked back over his shoulder.

“Aren’t you coming?” he asked, flashing an alluring smile. “I thought you were going to make me beautiful again. I’ll even let you dress me if ask politely.”

Hannibal followed like a dog at his heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies for the long delay. It has been a bad few months for mental health for me, and writing sentimentality has not been coming easily to me lately. I hope to have the next chapter out much sooner.


End file.
